


forget me nots and second thoughts

by crashingmanicwave



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magic, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:56:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashingmanicwave/pseuds/crashingmanicwave
Summary: My home is gray. My world is gray. Colors made that hollow space in my ribs ache, so I stopped seeing them. Gray is easy. Gray is safe. Gray is numbing.





	forget me nots and second thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of attempt at first person tho I loathe writing it, I want to be better at it so here we are. Whether or not this will be finished is questionable at best. Brendon is a fae who was captured years ago and has been experimented on to the point of forgetting his name, Ryan is half fae but doesn't know it. They end up meeting, so goes the tale.
> 
> (You get points if you know what song the lyric in the title is from without googling it.)
> 
> Enjoy!

I don’t believe in wishes, dreams, or miracles.

“Your name?”

I did, once, I think. If I try hard enough to recall before the throbbing in my temples begins.

“Name? I don’t have such a thing, sir.”

Demure, downcast gaze. So unlike me, or unlike the me that is now dead. The me from before. The me who once was.

“That’s right.”

The me I still wish I was.

My home is gray. My world is gray. Colors made that hollow space in my ribs ache, so I stopped seeing them. Gray is easy. Gray is safe. Gray is numbing.

I stare at a gray wall as I fall asleep, I blink awake into grainy, gray darkness each morning.

My life runs in circles, like a dog chases its tail; something it’s always had but will never catch.

A metaphor for me, and my sense of self, or what’s left of it, anyway.

I’m a dull, brittle knife that cracks a little more each time it’s sharpened. I think I’ll be eroded away completely, soon, if I don’t put up a fight.

Though these days, I can’t imagine why I would.

I stand in the gray room surrounded by men in gray who poke and prod and examine me, taking my vitals, jotting down notes on equally gray clipboards, voices low and husky and  _ gray _ like ash.

I am only meant to do what I’m told.

Only obey.

A sense of self, a consciousness, all things like that are meaningless in the face of absolute authority.

I think the only reason I’ve survived this long is by leeching my world of color, leaving it gray and lifeless. A safety jacket, a fire blanket.

I feel the pain of everything much less viscerally.

And I’ll stay this way, in my gray, unblinking world, right up until all sense of self is gone and demolished. Until I stop thinking. Until I become a lifeless husk, walking and speaking and nothing within, just the hands that seek to control me.

At this point, I’m content to let that happen.

I’m tired.

The fighting has done nothing but hurt me, win me no battles. My body bears scars from all of my many losses, but no shred of victory exists. Nothing tangible I can grasp and touch, the way I can trace the scars on my limbs.

I’d like to waste away in my gray little world in peace. Let these men, these sad humans, do with my body and my existence what they will.

**-∞-**

There’s color again.

The sunlight - it  _ must _ be sunlight, could not possibly be anything else - is streaming through my window. 

It’s a brilliant, warm shade of gold.

I’m speechless, curled up sideways on my cot, left staring.

I’m not sure how I never noticed it before.

But I can feel something again.

**-∞-**

It’s like I’ve had my head held underwater this whole time, like I’ve been oppressed from all sides, unable to see or think or  _ breathe. _

I had thought the gray world was of my own making, trapping myself in an endless, numb sea devoid of color or light or life.

But that was a lie, too.

The poison that had coursed through my veins was no more, and for the first time, I feel like I can live again. My world is regaining color, one shade at a time.

I feel the pain of rocks digging into my bare feet but I dare not stop for anything in the world, not even as I leave fingerpaint crimson behind me with each step.

Sand sticks to my sweaty skin, gets in my bloody wounds. 

Red, gold, blue.

Brilliant hues enthrall and burn all at once, and I’m running, running, running for my life. I’ve never felt more terrified nor more alive.

Not in a long, long time.

I see the sky, the horizon, and the world expands before me. The gray prison is gone, no more, banished to the darkest reaches of my mind. The air tastes sweet, even the pain etched into my skin is a welcome one.

I don’t know where to go, have no compass, no direction, no knowledge, but I will run even if it wears my feet into bloody scraps.

It’s all I can do.

**-∞-**

The longer I travel, the more I wander, the more of myself I regain.

My name stays out of reach. Tantalizingly close, but not close enough. I realize forcing myself to remember won’t help, so there’s no point in giving myself an unnecessary headache.

If it’s meant to come back to me, it will.

I am not a human.

Humans captured me, used me for anything they wanted. My blood, my skin, my magic. All of it ripe for the picking, and me, I was alone and easy to subdue.

I wonder if I even still have magic in me, drained dry and plucked bare as I am.

Human cities are strange, so full of life in ways different from forests and deserts and other wildernesses. A wilderness of its own, in a sense. The walls and ground are dead, but life thrives in other forms. A weed pushing its way through the cracks in the concrete, ground unsettled by a tree’s overgrown roots, a bird’s nest in the dirty window of a tall building.

They have adapted to this new world.

I suppose I can, too.

**-∞-**

I have made a small home for myself. 

Once my feet were too bloody to run, I knew I had to settle down somewhere, find myself shelter, find myself  _ shoes. _

If I caught whiff of  _ them _ coming back for me, then I’d be gone, just like that.

I’d rather die than return to that gray world.

Whether I run or die, the result is the same.

I’m not going back there.

For now, though.

For now, I’m going to relearn how to live.

**-∞-**

It’s not bad, this new life.

I think some of my magic may be returning to me; I find myself able to craft things out of soil merely by shaping it into what I wish for it to be.

It’s not much, and it drains me to create, but I’ve begun to carve out a small life for myself this way.

A street seller. A funny thing I’d never have thought myself as being.

The notion very, very human.

But I craft my trinkets and it puts enough human money in my pocket to afford food and clothing. It seems people are drawn to my little impromptu shop, and I rarely go a day without selling at least a couple things.

I remember so little of my own magic, of fae magic, that it is hard to say whether or not it is the trinkets that have magical pull or whether it is myself now that my magic has begun to return.

Either way, it benefits me.

Until I save up enough to buy myself a place to live, this way of life isn’t terrible.

I’m free.

That’s more meaningful than anything else.

**-∞-**

I have my own ‘apartment’ now.

I do not own it, as I learned owning a dwelling is far beyond my current means, but I pay to live there.

I have a roof over my head, a door that closes and locks behind me. But it is a door I choose to lock, rather than one locked to keep me in.

It’s small and dingy, but it’s home for now.

The weather outside has warmed, but I still continue to wear long pants and sleeves. In broad daylight, the scars the humans left me with are a ghastly sight, and I’m not confident the allure of my magic would be enough to not leave others with a bitter taste in their mouth at the sight.

And that would be a detriment to my income.

_ They _ have not yet found me, tried to imprison me again.

I’d like to keep it that way.

**-∞-**

I’ve learned so much about humans over the course of these months, learned how they live, how they speak, how they interact with one another. There is no doubt I am not one of them and never will be, but I am fascinated.

Lives as fleeting as a bubble, a dandelion seed, and yet they work so hard to thrive.

I can relate, for I, too, work hard to thrive.

My brain as riddled with holes as it is.

I only know I am old, older than any human, older than the soil beneath the concrete of this little city, probably. I draw people to me, humans never sure why they’re drawn in but only knowing that they are, like flies to honey.

The sweetly alluring magic of fae blood is not something within my control, but I think so far it’s been to my advantage.

It makes interacting with humans easier.

If I cannot quite come up with my rent for the month, my landlord lets me slide.

If a customer is indecisive on buying something, I usually grin  _ just _ so and they’ll decide and buy.

It’s kind of manipulative. I’ll own up to that.

But for the sake of my own survival, I’ll do it.

**-∞-**

There’s a young man I see every day, near where I set up my shop.

Human? I think.

For some reason, I get mixed vibes from him.

He plays his guitar some days, some days I see him only in passing, instrument in its case, slung over his back.

His hair is soft and wavy and he is tall and very lean, like a willow.

Though only a human, he’s caught my eye every day, and I find myself watching him.

With no intent to do anything but watch and observe. He fascinates me in ways no other human has, even with all their little quirks. There’s just  _ something _ about him.

I intended to stay afar, but he approached my shop one way, guitar slung over his back and an arched eyebrow as he observed my wares.

“These are cool,” He commented, brushing fingers over them with the lightest touch.

“Cool,” I echoed. “Yeah, sure, I guess so.”

He laughed at that, and I found myself wanting to hear him laugh again.

“You make these?”

“Yeah,” I said.

He seemed to be waiting for elaboration, but I wasn’t about to.

He picked up a small box with an elaborate hatch, something I made mostly out of boredom. It wasn’t very easy to open, so it hadn’t been a popular sell.

“How much for this?”

I raised an eyebrow, questioning his choices, but told him.

“I’ll take it. I kinda dig it. It’s weird.”

“Weird. Sure.” I took the cash from him with a snort.

The weird one is you.

I felt his gaze on me as I counted out change, though I pretended not to notice. It’s normal, humans staring at me, but the weight of his look feels far heavier.

“Hey,” he said, “you’re not from around here, are you? You, uh, don’t seem like you’d be from around here.”

“Here’s your change.”

Questions I won’t entertain.

He seemed to get that, and took his change with a sheepish grin, our fingers brushing, a more lingering touch than expected. I was as surprised as he that I didn’t immediately retract my hand.

“Thanks,” his voice was a little hoarse.

I pretended not to notice when I said, “My pleasure.”

**-∞-**

His name is Ryan, that oddball human with the guitar.

I have no name to give him in return, so I don’t, and he hasn’t really asked.

When business is slow, he’ll come and lean against the wall near my booth, never too close, a part of me grateful and another part wishing he’d stand just a  _ little _ closer.

He’s incredibly confusing.

A walking contradiction of a man, seeming so quiet and unassuming but wit as sharp as a blade, making quips leaving me stunned and laughing.

Other times he was so awkward and reserved in ways I couldn’t help but find endearing.

Whenever he did buy from me, it was always the oddball trinkets, the things that clearly didn’t sell well, the things that were unlike the others.

“I like these ones,” he’d explained when I asked once. “They’re unique. Odd man out. I can kinda relate.”

I wonder what he does with them, but I don’t ask.

A part of me wants to know him so much better, but a part of me fears.

Humans.

As much as they’ve grown on me, I guess a part of me still can’t trust. Still flinches in their presence.

Ryan keeping his distance is intentional and being mindful of my feelings. 

This one is different.

_ Unique, _ that word fits you, too.

He goes to pay one day for a little figurine of a dog, one that changes colors in the sun by no real discernable method. The front left leg had broken off of it, but it still shone brilliantly when held up to the light.

“It’s yours,” I say. “Take it.”

He pauses.

“I insist,” I continue. “It’s yours. I think it was probably meant to be.”

Ryan manages a small laugh at that, slowly pocketing his wallet again.

“If you insist.”

He held it up to the setting sun with a soft smile, barely there, just a quirk of lips.

“What makes it do that?”

“Magic,” I say simply.

“I think that was meant to be a joke, but somehow when you say it, it sounds like it’s for real.”

“It is for real,” I say, smiling at him when he looks over at me. “Whether you believe or not.”

Ryan echoes my smile.

“Yeah, somehow when you say it it just doesn’t seem like a joke.”

“I’m not joking.”

Ryan pauses, figurine still cupped in his hand, though lowered from the sun.

“I’m supposed to be more jaded and cynical than this,” he says, “but when you say it I really wanna believe.”

“You’d want to believe I’m magic?” 

“It seems right. If it’s you.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ll let you believe that, if that’s what you want.”

Ryan’s smile lingers, soft around the edges.

“I think I will.”


End file.
